


Toss a Coin to Your Lover

by dhwty_writes



Series: Geraskier One-Shots [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, and words, but it ends well, there's so much miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25785232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhwty_writes/pseuds/dhwty_writes
Summary: "What the actual fuck," he began his tirade, "we're you thinking, you cursed witcher?" He flinched but Jaskier didn't care. He was bitter and battered and broken-hearted and it was Geralt’s fault!"What do you take me for?" He shouted and dug for the coins in his purse. "Some common whore? Some- some common travelling bard who will just as easily fall into bed for some coin as fall into song?" He probably shouldn't care that much but even if he was now famous enough to normally elude such propositions- as well as the need to accept them - it still rubbed him the wrong way decades later."For years I've kept you company, for years I've sung your praises. 'Toss a coin to your witcher', indeed. Here!" One by one he hurled them in Geralt's general direction. "Have some coins! Have plenty of them!"Geralt and Jaskier finally sleep together, yet, come next morning Geralt just leaves but not before leaving a handful of coins on the nightstand. Naturally, Jaskier is not overjoyed. Naturally, they are bound to have some words.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier One-Shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931821
Comments: 53
Kudos: 605





	Toss a Coin to Your Lover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DovaBunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovaBunny/gifts).



> I got inspired by [this](https://clown-of-rivia.tumblr.com/post/625812647165771776/angsty-geraskier-miscommunication-anyone) amazing post by @[DovaBunny!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovaBunny/pseuds/DovaBunny) ([clown-of-rivia](https://clown-of-rivia.tumblr.com/) over at tumblr) and they gave me the permission to write this one shot. Check them out if you can, their writing is great!

Jaskier stared at the coins on the nightstand for a very long, probably an embarrassing long time. Alright, definitely an embarrassing long time. But in his defence, the sun had barely risen and he'd frankly had the best sex of his _life_ \- and that ought to say something - so he thought he ought to be forgiven.

He'd be very glad to say that, when reality had finally caught up to him, the first thing he'd felt was rage. Alas, that was not the case. Because despite what other people thought, despite his infamous reputation as an exceptional (and intermittent) lover, despite _everything_ , he actually cared about sex. His flings were seldom only a fancy to sate his needs; he was genuinely, truly, deeply in love with his usual bedfellows.

And Geralt? Geralt wasn't his usual bedfellow. He wasn't _anything_ like his usual bedfellows. Jaskier fell for people easily and had been even more prone to do so in his youth. He had been in love with Geralt from the first moment he saw him. And over the years the feelings hadn't subsided in the slightest.

He was not ashamed to say that at this point he loved Geralt with all his being. Melitele's tits, he'd spent the last two decades traipsing after the damned witcher, composing ballad after ballad to his glory and beauty and virtue and finally - _finally_! - he'd thought Geralt had understood.

And then-

This.

Disbelievingly he stared at the money on the bedside table.

So, naturally, Jaskier felt hurt. He wanted to curl up and cry for days as he'd done after his first heartbreak, a lovely stable hand his father had sent away after catching them in the hay.

But then- resignation. Because he'd always known. 'Death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.' In some way he'd even been prepared for it, as much as one can prepare for such an eventuality. But not like _this_. This wasn't fair, this wasn't how it had been supposed to go, his heart not only broken but _shattered_ into a million pieces, like the beautiful painted glass vase he had broken all those years ago in the Countess de Stael's manse. Beautiful even in shambles, yet dangerous to everyone who dared touch the shards.

He exhaled forcefully, clinging to the feeling of glass cuts on his hands, clinging to the pain, the sting, the bite. _Finally,_ the rage kicked in. That was better than heartbreak, that was something he could use as a weapon, wielding words as lethal as any sword, as sweet as honey and as beautiful as a field of poisonous buttercups.

He stuffed the coins into his purse and got up to get dressed, seething and too furious to even attempt buttoning up his doublet. It wasn't as if Geralt hadn't seen that before. He _had_ and he had _loved_ it and then he had thrown _coins_ onto Jaskier's nightstand and _left_. The audacity!

And the audacity to just _leave_! Jaskier was of half a mind to not go after Geralt after all because wasn't that a pitiful sight? The great poet Jaskier in the role of the scorned lover, running after his witcher with desperate need? But then again, he was just too angry and he needed to have _words_ with Geralt. Oh, and what words they were about to have!

'Errands to run,’ Geralt had said and Jaskier scoffed in disbelief. Because now, apparently, the witcher had gone _craven_ , Roach and her master long gone when he peered into the stable. 'Good,' he thought, 'so he's afraid.' And he ought to be, really. Jaskier wasn't about to just stand idly by and let the love of his life leave - he had been much too persistent over the last two and a half decades for that.

So, he tightened the straps of his lute case and his bag and set out to do what he did best: Not composing or singing or giving exceptional blowjobs (although he certainly excelled at all of those tasks), no, no, no; what Jaskier did best was tracking a certain whitehaired witcher of his, no matter how little he wanted to be found.

A few pointed questions and sweet words later, he was on his way, huffing and puffing while running to match the speed of a horse and trying to compensate the head start Geralt and Roach had gotten – and praying, _Melitele, please_ , that they hadn't galloped away because then would take _days_ to catch up to them – yes, he spoke from experience, one of his not so fond memories from the beginning of their friendship when Geralt had still thought he could shake the bard. He had learned better quickly, though now it seemed he had forgotten the lessons learned half a lifetime ago.

Luckily, though, he hadn’t galloped away, as Jaskier caught up to him half a day's march later while he was watering Roach by a creek. Good. That was good. That meant that his white wolf wasn't completely averse to being found. Still, the sight of the peaceful tranquillity - as if nothing had _happened_ \- only fuelled his rage.

'How _dare_ he?', he thought. 'How dare he be calm when I am furious, how dare he find peace while I am aching, how _dare_ he hurt me and not hurt in turn?'

Oh, but that wouldn't last for long. No, Jaskier would see to that.

"Geralt!" he called even though he knew that the witcher had to be long aware of his presence. Still, he hadn't deemed it necessary to acknowledge him, not turning, not even raising his head. The _nerve_ of this! "What errands lead you to the middle of nowhere?"

The witcher flinched and looked up, his brows furrowed. It was a look Jaskier had long learnt to identify with pain. 'Good,' he thought, although he felt a little guilty, 'he shall hurt, too. Just like I do.'

"No answer?" he asked flippantly. " _Fine_. Then I'll do the talking. _As always_. You better sit down, witcher, because we will be here for a while. And you _will_ listen." Geralt didn't move. Fine for him.

"What the actual fuck," he began his tirade, "we're you thinking, you cursed witcher?" He flinched but Jaskier didn't care. He was _bitter_ and _battered_ and _broken-hearted_ and it was Geralt’s fault!

"What do you take me for?" He shouted and dug for the coins in his purse. "Some common whore? Some- some common _travelling bard_ who will just as easily fall into bed for some coin as fall into song?" He probably shouldn't care that much but even if he was now famous enough to normally elude such propositions- as well as the need to accept them - it still rubbed him the wrong way decades later. 

"For years I've kept you company, for years I've sung your praises. 'Toss a coin to your witcher', indeed. Here!" One by one he hurled them in Geralt's general direction. "Have some coins! Have plenty of them because trust me, I’m not wanting for money! I’m not wanting for anything, to be precise! I could easily retire to Oxenfurt to teach or to basically _any_ court on the Continent to make a home. _Easily_ , do you hear me? I do not need your _pity_! I do not need you to _pay_ me!" 

He had run out of Geralt's coins to throw and while he could certainly bombard him with his own money, he was actually quite protective of his earnings. So, he reverted back to verbal assault: "Is that what that was to you last night? Another night of paid company you like to indulge that you could just leave behind come morning? What were you even thinking? That you could finally shake me of after years of travelling with you?"

He gasped as a terrible thought came to his mind. "Is that what it is? You try to insult me so that I finally stop following you? Because then you have succeeded, Geralt. This insult is-"

"Jaskier," Geralt said, the first time he spoke since his arrival. It sounded weak. Broken. Pleading.

"No!" he answered. "No, I'm not finished with you, yet! You humiliate me, Geralt. For years I've endorsed your terrible bedside manner but this is a step too far. Really, I'm at a loss for words! I woke up with a wonderful afterglow to see you leaving and was worried for you. Turns out I shouldn't have been because _apparently_ this night has no impact whatsoever on you. You're as calm as- as- I don't even know! See what you do to me? I'm a poet! A minstrel! A pretty little wordsmith, yet you make my words fail me. My weapons, my craft, my only asset, my-"

"Jaskier, _please_ ," Geralt interrupted him and to his shame tears rose to Jaskier’s eyes, "I didn't want to hurt you!"

"Then why did you do it?" he yelled, choking on the tears. "Because guess what, Geralt, I'm hurt! I'm really fucking hurt!"

"I'm sorry. Last night was a mistake."

"Oh, great," he scoffed. "First you add injury to insult. But sure, why not add insult again?"

"I shouldn't have made you do this."

" _Made_ me?" he howled. "You didn't make me do anything! Fuck, I kissed you because Melitele's tits, I've been in love with you for _so_ long and I just couldn't _take_ it anymore!" His voice broke on the last syllables and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to quell the tears. "Shit-!" he croaked weakly. He hadn't meant for it to go this way, he was _angry_ and he wanted him to feel the fury, not to crack down before him, show him his weakness, show him just _how_ helpless he made him feel and-

He gulped down air, in a hope to stifle the violent sobs that shook his body. Oh, how he _ached_ to curl up in a lover's embrace, to be held and comforted and yet _Geralt_ was the one to reduce him to the blubbering mess. It was fucked up. It was so fucked up. Fucked up to run after him, fucked up to yell at him, all so very fucked up.

Still, he calmed down. Slowly. But still, he did.

When he was only sniffling a bit, he lowered his hands and found Geralt staring at him, unmoving, unblinking. Then he said: "No you're not."

"What do you mean, I'm not?"

"You're not in love with me. You can't be."

He scoffed. "Do you now claim to know my heart better than I do? Do you think I cannot judge whom I love? Do you think me an imbecile, Geralt? Incapable? Weak? Whatever it is, tell me! Better tell me now!"

"I think you are insane," he growled and Jaskier gasped, "to think yourself in love with a witcher."

"What, you absolute idiot, do you think have I been doing the last twenty-odd years? It hasn't been a deterrent all that time, so why should it be now?"

"Because you can't love me, Jaskier," he roared, the first time he had actually raised his voice at him since the djinn. "Because I am a witcher and can't love you back and demanding your affection would not be fair!"

"Denying it is equally unfair!"

Geralt growled and turned away, obviously displeased by something though Jaskier couldn't tell what it was.

He was still angry and he wanted to continue yelling, yell how Geralt paying him wasn't fair, how Geralt leaving him wasn't fair, how- But somewhere in his rage-clouded mind a voice of reason spoke up, granting surprising clarity for just a moment.

He clung to that clear thought as if for dear life, letting the fury dissipate until he was thinking again, and not just feeling and hurting. "Geralt," he said cautiously now, "why _did_ you pay me?"

The witcher scoffed and ducked his head. "I had to pay you something, didn't I?" he mumbled almost too quietly for Jaskier to hear. "I mean, you were expecting something. No-one would bed a witcher without- without recompensation."

Jaskier stared at him abhorred. "Why on earth would you think that?" he asked with disgust dripping into his voice.

"Because it's always been like this!" he answered exasperated. "Women love me only for the money and even then, they cannot look at me while taking me to bed. Yen could, but-" He winced. "The djinn- And you, Jaskier. You don't have anything like that. But I _had_ to give you _something_. I could never ask a sacrifice like that of something without-" Jaskier watched with astonishment as the witcher's voice broke. "What else do I have to offer you?"

"What- what else would do you have to offer me?" Jaskier gasped and spluttered trying - and failing - to find any words.

He just grunted and took Roach by the reins as if he was about to walk away - _again_.

"No!" He stepped in and ripped the reins out of his hands. "No, you do not get to flee! You stay and listen to what I have to say." He just stared, watching the bard as he started pacing. "What do you have to offer me, Geralt?" He asked bristled. "Why, what indeed? It isn't as if you have made me famous, ensuring my wealth and livelihood. It isn't as if you've saved my life countless of times, putting yourself in harm’s way right from the very beginning when you didn't even know - or like - me. It isn't as if you listen to my endless ramblings, as if you replace my lute strings when I need to, as if you lend me your coat when I'm freezing or carry my bag when I'm tired. It isn't as if you've nursed me back to health after illness and injury alike. It isn't as if you've rendered me completely speechless last night. No, _none of that has ever happened._ "

He ducked his head. "That's nothing."

"That's _everything_."

His head snapped up. "Well, I'm still a witcher!" he shouted but Jaskier didn't flinch nor waver.

"And when have I ever cared about that?" he shouted back. "My love for your mind and soul and heart has been free for as long as I know you. Why would you think that my love for your body wouldn't be?"

"You mean it," Geralt said his voice full of surprise.

"Of course, I do, you big dumb oaf! That's what I've been trying to tell you for the past half hour. What else am I supposed to do to convince you that you are worthy of love and softness and care? What else am I supposed to do to show you that I've been giving you all of this for half of my life without asking _anything_ in return? I never needed to ask! I've been paid in turn thousandfold. Not in money, Geralt, in actions big and small. I thought-" He choked on his tears, "I thought I've been paid in love, too."

"Witchers can't love. Witchers can't feel at all."

"Stop telling yourself that _lie._ I've known you for twenty years, Geralt. When you're happy you smile, when you think I'm funny you huff a laugh, when you're angry you shout, when you're sad you shut me out and when you're hurt you lick your wounds. You hide it, of course, but you haven't been able to hide it from me for a long time. And I _know_ you love people. You love your brothers and Vesemir and you love Yennefer in some way and Ciri, too. And I think you love me, too. Don't hide your love, witcher. Not from me. Never from me. You're just scared. A coward. Scared to get hurt and scared to hurt me."

"I'm not craven," he growled.

"No?" Jaskier crossed his arms. "Prove it."

Geralt looked at him quizzically. Jaskier raised an eyebrow. A challenge. An invitation. A plea. And just like that, Jaskier could see the witcher break. It was plain as day, the little crack in the facade, the little gleam in the eyes and then, suddenly, he was being kissed.

There was a desperate sob caught in Geralt's throat when they kissed, the anguish and agony overwhelming Jaskier and making him stumble a few paces back. Geralt kissed as if he'd never kissed before, frantic and fierce and forlorn, as if he feared that Jaskier would pull away, as if he waited for eventual rejection, revulsion, rebuke.

And that broke Jaskier's heart again, maybe even more so than the coin. No, Geralt could have paid him all the coin in the world and it wouldn't have hurt half as much as the onslaught of- of- _decades_ of loneliness and loathing and longing that choked him.

He was still angry - he was sure that he would continue being angry and hurt for quite some time - but that didn't matter right now. Right now, all that mattered what that he loved Geralt. And his beloved witcher, his dear white wolf, his revered companion, friend, lover was hurting, too. Because he hadn't been able to even imagine being worthy of the affection Jaskier gave him so readily, so freely, so effortlessly. Oh, and how much affection he had to give!

He raised his hands gently to cup his cheeks, wiping the tears away with both his thumbs and leaned into the kiss. The desperation faded away, as did the agony, to be replaced with tenderness and love. He reached for Geralt's hands to place them on his hips, whispering quietly between kisses: "It's okay, it's alright. Hold me, embrace me, I've got you." He placed a tender hand on Geralt's chest, manoeuvring them until they reached some rocks beside the creek to sit down on. He cradled his witcher into his lap, carding his fingers through his hair and kissed him, wishing that he never had to stop, hoping to pour all the unsaid words, all the undelivered confessions, all the unsung ballads (that he definitely did not have ready, no) into the slow movements of their lips.

When Geralt pulled away and leaned their foreheads against each other he was almost disappointed. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm sorry, Jaskier, I'm so sorry, I never meant- I never meant for any of this, I never meant to hurt you, to insult you, to- I just don't- I don't know how to- I want to make this good, make this good for you, and-"

"Shhhh," he made soothingly. "I know. I know, my love, my witcher, my dear heart. And I forgive you. You know I always do."

"I don't deserve-"

He pressed a finger to his lips. "No," he declared. "None of this nonsense anymore. I've yelled my throat sore trying to convince you otherwise. What else am I supposed to do to prove it?"

"Kiss me again," he begged, "A thousand times. Maybe I'll start to believe it then."

To his own surprise, Jaskier laughed. "That, my dear, I can do." He pecked him on the lips. "One," he said. "Nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine to go."

To his even bigger astonishment Geralt of Rivia, the witcher, the white wolf, smiled. Widely. "Hmm," he made. "I think I like that. Do it again?"

He did. "Two."

That earned him a quiet chuckle and a quivering sigh. "I love you," Geralt whispered. "I really do."

Jaskier smiled, too. "I know. I love you, too."

He buried his face in the crook of his neck and Jaskier's breath hitched. "I'm not good at showing it yet," Geralt said and Jaskier had to keep himself from squirming at the tickling sensation. "I'm shit at showing it. I can't promise you that I won't hurt you again. I've never done something like this before. But I will try. For you. Anything for you."

"Oh, my love," he sighed, his heart beating quicker. "And what a wonderful adventure that will be. A tale of love and woe, of-"

"-death and destiny?" Geralt interrupted him and looked at him, a sly smile on his lips. "Heroics and heartbreak?"

Jaskier gasped. "You remember!"

"Of course, I do. I never forget anything important." He opened his mouth to protest and Geralt quickly spoke: "Do you think it is a story worthy of a ballad?"

His expression went soft and his heart warmed. "No, Geralt," he said and kissed him again. "This is the stuff of an epos. In a thousand years they will still tell legends of our love. There will be novels and plays and songs, and- oh Geralt, I love you, so much it hurts."

The witcher pulled him close. “I love you, too. I love you even if I don’t show it. I love your singing, your dramatics, your fancies. I love that your hair is soft and that your body is unscarred and that your hands are always gentle. I love that you never smell of fear. And I still can’t believe any of this.”

Jaskier smiled and kissed him again. “Three,” he announced.

“Do it again?”

He laughed. “Always.” And so, he did. A thousand kisses and a thousand more. To make his witcher believe. To make his witcher stay. To love his witcher.

Because he always had. Jaskier, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove, strolling minstrel, master poet, _bard_ loved Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken since the moment he had first laid eyes on him. And now he got to show it to. Now he received love in turn. And in the end, that was all that mattered.


End file.
